


Stille Nacht

by Goethicite



Category: Rat Patrol
Genre: Christmas, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goethicite/pseuds/Goethicite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Christmas Eve, all the Rats know is they're having some bad luck.  All Dietrich knows is Hitler is sending someone special to Africa after the holiday.  All in all, it's that last breath before the storm.  Seasonal Prequel to my Captain America/Rat Patrol crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stille Nacht

The jeep’s engine was dying. It was rare that all four members of the Rat Patrol were in one vehicle, but the Christmas miracle this year seemed to be that Hitch had found the one jeep in the pool that didn’t succumb to Tully’s magic. They’d left the sullen bitch burning in the dunes. Moffitt had gotten a face full of smoke and was hacking miserably into Tully’s shoulder in the backseat. Troy was another grunt of “’m alright,” from murdering the man with his bare hands.

“Come on sweetheart, only another twenty kilometers then it’s a full tank and an oil change,” Hitch coaxed the wheezing vehicle. They had a single jerry can of fuel left from their destruction of the other jeep. It should have been more than enough except for seam in the gas tank that had sprung a leak. Every kilometer or so, they had to stop and add to the layers of ammo case tape that covered the crack.  
Troy winced as they crested a dune and bounced down the lee side where it turned into a rock garden. This set Moffitt into another round of jarring coughs that had Tully asking, “Are you doin’ okay, Sarge?”

Before the British Rat could sign his death warrant, Troy cut in. “You’re not goddamn fine, Jack. Answer the man truthfully.”

Startled by the use of his Christian name, Moffitt answered hoarsely, “I need water, which we don’t have. So I don’t see any point worrying about it…”

Moffitt’s rant was interrupted by a loud, shrieking tearing noise. “God fucking dammit all.” Hitch swerved tightly to keep the jeep from overturning. “We just got gutted!”

Sure enough, sticking out of the side of the hill like it was waiting for an unsuspecting American jeep was large spikes of German shrapnel. Troy felt a bellow of rage boil up in his throat. He swallowed it down as he observed the relation between the shrapnel and the rocks which had hidden it from Hitch. No fair taking it out on the poor kid. Hitch himself was flushed bright red and looked torn between bellowing more obscenities and laughing hysterically. The gas made a dull, rhythmic splash as it ran out onto the sand from underneath the jeep.

“Tully, get the water, guns, ammo, and grenades and pack’em up. Moffitt, grab all the personal packs and rations. Hitch and I’ll torch this bitch. We’re walking home.” It was a hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve Troy thought. Burning their only means of transportation in the middle of the desert, thirteen miles away from a hot meal and clean sheets.

Troy and Hitch stripped the identifying labels off the vehicle and piled them into the center seat. Tully and Moffitt collected all the supplies a moved a good sixty feet away to wait. Hitch cracked open the remaining Jerry can of fuel and poured it over the jeep starting with the identifying markers. From the pack of matches he kept to light Moffitt’s cigarettes when the other Rat forget his lighter, Troy pulled out a matchstick, struck it against the side of the jeep, and tossed it on the biggest puddle of gasoline.

The supplies, guns, and ammo had been split into four piles with packs. Each Rat took a pile. Moffitt accepted a swig of water before shouldering his back and picking up the M1 they’d been issued. Tully had an M1 as well, the other two had Thompsons. Between all four of them, they had maybe a hundred rounds. A hell of a lot to carry, not a lot in a firefight.

“Let’s shake it.” Troy checked his compass, relying more on his gut sense of direction than the finicky, tin gizmo. Then he headed off towards Allied lines. The other Rats fell in loosely with Hitch taking up rearguard. It was a long walk home half a canteen each as the sun started to go down.

They hit the road two miles into their trek. Despite the danger, they walked along, single-file, at a slow jog to eat up the distance. Technically, there was a Christmas truce. However, the SS and Gestapo tended not respect these things, and, as commandos, no German would do them any favors. Despite the burr in his throat, Moffitt had found enough of his voice to croon carols. It probably hurt, but Hitch was smiling. Troy shot the British Rat a grateful smile. He owed Moffitt a good bottle of booze for this.

Moffitt returned Troy’s grin and started another tune, this one completely in Latin, as the Rats crested one of the many hills between them and their warm beds. Coming the other way, down the opposite hill, was a convoy of German half-tracks and panzers lead by a car. A half-track’s spotlight lit on the Rats, outlining them against the sand.

“Shit.” Troy and others scrambled to get their rifles pointed in the right direction.

The staff car rolled to a stop in the valley twenty feet away. Hauptmann Dietrich stood up in the backseat. He looked at the Rats with something like amusement for a long moment. “Froliche Weihnatchen.”  
“Merry Christmas, as well,” Moffitt called back, stepping up next to Troy.

“Your jeeps broke down?” Dietrich looked the Rats over pointedly. “And it is a long way back to your camp.”

Troy nodded. “Yep. Bad luck for Christmas.”

Dietrich smirked. “Indeed. “ He sat back down waiting. When the Rats continued to stand with weapons ready, he sighed and gestured pointedly. “Well, get in. I’ve got water here. We can drop you two miles from your own lines before some fanatic ignores the truce and shoots you all.”

Moffitt and Troy shared a meaningful look before they safed their rifles. Tully and Hitch did the same, and they walked over to the staff car. The driver looked at them nervously, but Dietrich barked out an order and man climbed out and jogged over to a half-track. Dietrich himself got behind the wheel after conferring with a subordinate, who grinned and waved at Tully cheerfully.

Tully waved back uncertainly before being pulled into the car by Hitch as the Rats settled in.

“Oberlntant Scholz played you in our little charade,” Dietrich explained to Tully. To Troy and Moffitt, he continued, “He’ll be leading the column while I dispose of you quietly.

“Thanks for this, Captain,” Troy said gratefully, taking another pull from Dietrich’s canteen. “It’s a long walk home.”

“Consider it my gift to you, which you could return by being somewhere else for the next two weeks.” Dietrich started the car and did a three-point turn to follow the road back towards the fork which led to the American encampment.

“There’s a person of some import who rather hates my Field Marshall coming to visit. I would prefer if it went smoothly.”

Troy nodded. Any officer who hated Rommel would be bad news for the Rats anyways. Dietrich didn’t treat them as commandos unless they were out of uniform. A practice which had saved the Rats’ lives more than once. Any other officer would have shot them one by one. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Dietrich shrugged. “That will suffice. Are you okay, Sergeant Moffitt?”

“Inhaled a bit of smoke disposing of my jeep.” The British Rat spit a mouthful of phlegm into the sand. “Nasty business that.”

“Beneath the seat is a flask. A gift from Scholz actually. His father makes what I believe you Americans call ‘home-brew’.” Dietrich indicated which seat without taking his eyes off the dark road.

Hitch dug out the flask and passed it to the sergeant. Moffitt took a healthy swig then coughed once, hard. “Christ, that burns.” He cleared his throat as the soreness receded. “Works wonders though.”

Tully laughed and held out a hand to try it for himself. A small sip made him smile. “Tastes almost as good as home.”

Dietrich gave him an honest smile. “I’ll tell Henric his favorite American moonshiner approves of his family’s recipe.”

“Pass it here,” Hitch insisted. A mouthful had him coughing as he passed it to Troy.

Troy raised the flask in a toast to Dietrich. “To the Captain. So when this damn war is over we can buy him all those drinks we owe him.”

“I will hold you to that,” Dietrich informed Troy as the sergeant took his turn.

The German staff car rattled down the road into the dark with its headlights off and soft laughter echoing from the seats. Christmas carols sung in both German and English and terrible jokes. Change was coming. It boiled in the air and was hinted at with ever set of orders given to both sides. This was the last breath before a storm. Even the desert seemed swirled softly in anticipation.

Moffitt shivered, his singing trailing off as his looked up at the sliver off moon. The part of him which read the desert like a lover whispered softly in his head. Change was coming. God save them all. He shuddered and turned back to the songs and camaraderie.


End file.
